


All For Athos

by Drama_Duchess



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Aramis Does Surgery, Athos-centric, Blood and Injury, Brotherhood, Emotional Friends, Friendship, Gen, Guilty Aramis, Guilty Porthos, Guilty d'Artagnan, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, No Slash, Treville Father Figure to Athos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drama_Duchess/pseuds/Drama_Duchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Musketeers are caught in an ambush upon their return from a mission. Athos gets shot amidst the battle. Porthos, Aramis, and D'artagnan do not notice until the smoke finally clears and they must do all they can to save Athos' life. Aramis applies his "battlefield medicine" to save Athos, but is that enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All For Athos

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in mid-season 1. I wrote this Athos-centric fic because I loved the book, loved the series, and I'm so in love with Athos.

Athos didn't feel the bullet rip through his side right away. He was so charged with determination and adrenalin to fight in the name of the King that he paid attention to nothing else. He fought off the assassins quickly and watched them fall one by one. Although Athos was an expert swordsman, fatigue was setting in his body. It was only a matter of time when he would succumb to the exhaustion and falter. In the heat of the scuffle, he was separated from his friends. The last he saw, Porthos was throwing a fist into someone's mouth and Aramis was welding his rapier against two adversaries. And as for D'artagnan, Athos had lost sight of the young Gascon. There was no time to stop and catch their breaths because they were outnumbered and the guards came in small swarms. The musketeers had put too much distance between each other and in the process, were too preoccupied with their tasks on-hand to notice what the others were doing.

With the addition of D'artagnan, the three inseparables were Captain Treville's best musketeers and they were known to be outstanding warriors, as well as having a knack for getting into trouble. But either way, they were extremely loyal to His Majesty and that was enough. The King had written a private letter to his cousin Francois de Bourbon, Duke of Beaufort and consulted Captain Treville for a trustworthy messenger. If the letter should fall into the wrong hands, it would mean disaster for France. So, to carry out this highly important, yet routine mission, Captain Treville had just the right peoples in mind. He figured it to be harmless enough. And besides, his three subjects were growing more and more restless each day for "lack of action", as they called it. If they were bored any longer, they would go find reason to pick a duel with Cardinal Richelieu's red guards. The four friends gladly accepted the job and left at the crack of dawn the very next day.

Their journey into Beaufort was surprisingly done with ease. They delivered the letter and awaited a response from the Duke. Once the reply was written and the wax seal was stamped on the envelope, the four friends were off for their return. They were joking at how this had to be the most pleasant mission they ever had to fill when suddenly, a band of assassins spilled out from behind the trees in an ambush. The musketeers were not frazzled. Instead, they were always ready for an attack. They dismounted their horses and braced themselves for a fight.

Athos took down more than a dozen men in a matter of minutes before even breaking a sweat. He saved D'artagnan several times from being struck from behind. But in the commotion, he was forced to step farther and farther away from his friends. Aramis and Porthos were busy holding off their own assailants.

The smoky smell of spent gunpowder intermingled with fresh blood filled the battlegrounds. Mutilated bodies littered the clearing. Amidst the occasional loud explosions of gunfire erupting from pistols and muskets, rapiers were heard clashing in heated duels. The enemy's numbers soon dwindled down to only a handful, thanks to the handy work of the musketeers. As the fog from the gun smoke thinned, the remainder of the enemies appeared to be retreating. D'artagnan was elated at seeing them run in the opposite direction and gave a jubilant shout of approval. Aramis was pleased that they were able to triumph a small army and come out unscathed. Porthos knew that word would travel back to the garrison and the three inseparables along with young D'artagnan would bask in glory once again. He pictured being congratulated by their peers and receiving honorable words from Captain Treville. Unscathed. Or so they thought.

"Is everyone alright? Is anyone hurt?" Aramis shouted as he watched the last of the enemy disappear into the woods.

"I'm fine." D'artagnan replied, while making his way to where Aramis stood.

"I'm alright as well." Porthos answered from a distance, picking up and dusting off his hat.

They half-assumed Athos was alright, simply because of the fact that Athos was unbreakable. Athos was a great warrior and considered the finest in Captain Treville's company. Besides, he rarely needed help. In fact, he was the sort of person who had everyone else's back. After all, he was made of iron and no one could possibly defeat him. He was cunning, intelligent and always kept his cool even in the most stressful and tense situations. If Athos was capable of freaking out, no one had ever witnessed it. He was often like the calm before the storm - cool and composed only to be followed by a path of mass destruction. He possessed a rather majestic aura, earning him the respect of all the musketeers.

"Where's Athos?" D'artagnan said when nothing was heard from Athos.

They looked around and focused on a figure staggering towards them. It was Athos. He wore no hat, his disheveled hair was matted against a pasty forehead. His navy blue doublet was unbuttoned, revealing a cream-colored tunic. One hand was still holding his rapier while the other hand was clutched tightly to his side. At first glance, the three friends didn't think anything was amiss because it wasn't uncommon for them to get scraped up here and there as a result of battle. It came with the territory and they were used to it. They all had their share of injuries. Besides, it wasn't anything that a good bottle of Anjou wine couldn't fix.

Aramis was the first to realize something wrong. His triumphant smile vanished when his gaze fell upon the hand that Athos held to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers in a rather alarming amount - too much, it seemed, to be considered a minor injury. Athos continued to wobble towards them in a slow and unsteady fashion. His face was ashy and sweat had glossed over his face. Porthos and D'artagnan had been busy congratulating each other on handling the ambush victoriously. They soon noticed Aramis' lack of enthusiasm and followed his gaze. And soon, their smiles vanished as well. They watched Athos take three more uneasy steps before losing his grasp on his rapier. It wasn't like Athos to let go of his beloved rapier no matter how injured he was.

The pain was catching up to Athos. He felt an unbearable, hot searing pain developing on his side. He knew he'd been shot now but he had to be brave and hide it as best he could. He was a warrior and warriors were not allowed to show weakness. Perhaps his friends won't notice and he'll just somehow secretly nurse himself back to health. Growing dizzy and weak from the blood loss, he inched forward. He didn't even feel his hand releasing his grip on his rapier. He swayed on his feet and realized he couldn't hold on any further. His knees gave out and he collapsed on the spot altogether. The coolness of the stone against his cheek was the last sense of feeling he had before drifting off into the darkness.

"Athos!" Aramis cried with certain tenseness in his tone that caused great alarm. They rushed to their fallen friend's side.

"Is he ...?" Porthos swallowed, unable to finish his sentence. He had dropped to his knees, afraid to touch Athos for fear of finding out news he didn't want to hear.

Aramis carefully turned Athos over. His hand trembled as he felt for a pulse. "No. He's still alive." Aramis answered with a sigh of relief. Athos appeared so unnaturally still that it scared the others. They've never seen mighty Athos so beaten.

Aramis glanced over the hole in Athos' doublet where the bullet from a pistol had entered. He then proceeded to peel open the doublet to reveal a bloodstained tunic. Fresh blood was still flowing from a tear on the right side of his tunic. Aramis quickly rolled up the tunic to inspect the injuries. About two inches down from the last rib of his rib cage, was a messy wound with blood still oozing out. White-faced and shaken, D'artagnan had to turn away briefly when he saw the sickening wound. Porthos, however, stared unwavering at the sight before him and watched Aramis access the situation. Aramis quickly inspected the damage. He skillfully scrutinized the wound and turned Athos to his side, as if searching for something.

"...ah, no exit wound, which means the bullet, is still in the body." Aramis muttered. He looked up to meet the gaze of his friends, who were patiently awaiting the diagnosis. "We have to get him out of here. I'll need space to operate. He'll bleed to death if we remain here any longer." Aramis pulled off Athos' scarf to use as a bandage to stop the bleeding and apply pressure to the wound.

"I saw an abandoned farmhouse a ways back. We can go there. I'll gather the horses." D'artagnan said.

"Make haste, D'artagnan. We don't have much time." Aramis instructed. The Gascon immediately went after the horses that had been last seen heading towards the river when the battle started. While Aramis fixed the bandages and prepared Athos for transport, Porthos collected Athos' belongings.

D'artagnan returned with their horses. They managed to pull Athos up into a seated position on the saddle with a leg over each side of the horse. Still unconscious, Athos's torso came forward and rested against the horse's mane. His arms and legs hung limply along the animal's sides. Porthos strapped Athos securely and mounted his own horse while Aramis tied the reins of Athos' horse to his own. Before long, they galloped away.

Eventually, they found the abandoned farmhouse a few kilometers outside of Orleans. A twist of foliage had nearly obscured the weather-beaten old farmhouse that refused to fall. It was a decrepit-looking single story house with a shingled gable roof. The two modest windows sandwiching the main entrance were adorned with wooden shutters hanging off its hinges. A stone façade gave the battered down farmhouse a sturdy appearance like as if it lasted many years before its dismal abandonment. The four friends rode through the thicket and tall wild grass. As they drew nearer, they noticed a sort of eerie stillness that emanated from the place - perhaps something out of a ghost story. But there was no time to lose. They tied their horses to a post and quickly approached the refuge with Athos in tow.

D'artagnan threw open the rickety doors of the farmhouse, kicking up a cloud of dust and causing a few rats to scamper frightfully away. He breathed in the dust and coughed. Ignoring the straggly conditions, he scanned the empty room for something useful. He spotted a rectangular table, two dusty chairs, some shards of glass littered the decaying floorboards, broken earthenware pots scattered aimlessly, and a collection of frayed wicker baskets piled in a corner. He made way for the table and moved it to the center of the room. Athos had one limp arm pulled over Aramis' shoulder and the other over Porthos' shoulder. They half dragged an unconscious Athos into the room and deposited him gently onto the table.

Athos searched for a way out of the darkness. He felt detached from his body like as if he was drifting in the air. He wondered if he was dying, or maybe he was already dead and just didn't know it yet. He hated to admit it but death really didn't seem like such a bad option. There were so many times in his life when he wanted to be dead. Memories of another life haunted him on a daily basis and prevented him from living happily. He was torn between his family and a beautiful woman, who turned out to be a hardened criminal with the fleur-de-lis branded on her shoulder. Her betrayal followed by her execution was more than Athos could bear, especially since she was executed by his hand. He had never been quite the same thereafter. The dark clouds always hung over him and taunted him with guilt each time he thought about Thomas' death. He hated himself for not protecting his brother better and took all the blame upon himself for the death.

Athos drowned his sorrows in wine because he believed that the more he drank, the more he forgot his troubles. Anger, despair, and grief had a way of taking over during his sobriety. And so, he found comfort in wine. Athos possessed a self-destructive quality about him that often surfaced when he went headlong into dangerous situations. He was fearless to his friends as well as his enemies. Perhaps it was his way of recklessly challenging how far he could get before he got killed.

There were muffled sounds weaving in and out of earshot. He was sure the voices belonged to his friends but he couldn't understand what they were saying. His back was lying against something hard and uncomfortable and a strange buzzing in his ear annoyed him. Feeling was slowly returning to his body. Not only was he starting to get the sensation back into his shoulders, arms, and fingers, but his wound soon exploded with pain. He grimaced and groaned loudly. His breathing gradually became more and more ragged as he regained consciousness.

"Athos?" D'artagnan said anxiously as he saw his friend's eyes blink open.

The first thing Athos saw when his vision returned was the moldy wooden beams that formed an upside down "V" holding up the roof. He wondered where he was and how he came to being there. He turned his head and judging from the worried expression on D'artagnan's face, Athos realized he must look pretty chewed up.

"You'll be as good as new - or even better - after Aramis is done with you." Porthos said, trying to hide the concern and fright in his voice. He decided he needed to keep his cool for everyone's sake, when in fact; the truth was that he was terrified of losing one of his best friends. He could not lose Athos. Athos was like his savior. If it wasn't for Athos, he would still be wasting away in the Court of Miracles - without a future, without hope. Athos convinced him that he had the ability to step up and make a change instead of suffering in the poverty-stricken slums of Paris. Growing up among thieves were all Porthos knew at the time. He never figured there was a way out until he met Athos. In so many ways, Athos ended up saving his life and for that, he felt in debt to him. They have been through way too much for it to end like this. Porthos was not going to let it go down that road.

"P-porthos." Athos stammered weakly. He realized soon enough that his friends had brought him to this abandoned farmhouse. It provided a convenient means for hiding as well as a place where Aramis can operate. There was no telling if the assassins would regroup and return with reinforcements.

Athos was no doctor, but he had a pretty good idea on the extent of his injury. People died from such wounds. From the looks of things, it was not a very hopeful situation. And even though Aramis was not in his direct line of sight at the moment, he knew that Aramis was occupied with preparing his tools in hopes of saving his life. It was what Aramis did when anyone needed stitching up. Athos' strength was diminishing and he didn't know how much further he could hold on. But he found comfort in being surrounded by his best friends before the final call, allowing death to be less frightening.

"No, it's not going to happen that way. You will not die. You are not going to give up." Porthos said in anguish, not liking the defeated tone in Athos' voice. "We've been hurt far worse than this." Porthos lied.

"Porthos is right. It's just a scratch. You'll be up and about in no time." D'artagnan searched for comforting words, but knew from the shakiness in his voice that he was probably failing miserably.

"Tell - tell Treville that I'm sorry for letting him down." Athos asked, ignoring the tears that were welling up behind Porthos' hardened eyes. "Just in case." Athos cracked a small grin to lighten the situation. A sudden spot of pain seized him when he tried to move. His breath hitched miserably and he squeezed his eyes shut.

One thing was for sure, Athos looked up to Captain Treville like a father. He always wanted to do right by the man and make him proud. Treville was perhaps the only person who had complete faith in Athos. In so many ways, young Athos was like a wild horse that needed taming. He only needed the right sort of guidance, from the right sort of person. There was something promising in Athos that Treville saw which no one else did. Or it could be that Athos was the mirror image of someone else he once knew - himself. Athos remembered that glorious day when he became commissioned as a musketeer like it was yesterday. He was so excited yet at the same time, overwhelmed at the display of emotions Treville expressed after the initiation ceremony before the King. It was all he ever wanted - to be under the command of the admirable Captain Treville. He did whatever was asked of him, everything from patrol duty to engaging in battle, from guarding the King when dignitaries visited to accompanying the King on pointless hunting excursions, and from foiling Cardinal Richelieu's sinister plans to delivering classified letters for the Queen. He had so much respect for Treville that he would've done anything and everything to gain his approval.

"You need to lie still, my friend." Aramis instructed with a hand gently pressing down on Athos' shoulder.

"Aramis, I was wondering where you had gone." Athos grunted. He opened his eyes to find all three of his friends staring down at him.

"We won't have any more of such talk. Whatever you need to say to Treville, you will tell him yourself." Aramis said bitterly, and then changed his tone. "Besides, you're starting to scare young D'artagnan."

By then, Athos' complexion had gone a shade paler under his mustache and beard. More perspiration had glossed over his handsome face and chest. His sweat-drenched shaggy black hair was matted against his forehead in thick strands. Athos' breathing was labored and sounded agonizingly wretched. They could see the lethargy in his half-drooped eyes and realize that his health was failing quickly. The blood from the wound had already absorbed through the makeshift bandage completely and the dark red spot on his linen tunic was gradually spreading. Athos' knew he was dying and if it came to it, he felt rather satisfied that he was surrounded by his three best friends. D'artagnan was the latest addition to their group and although Athos hadn't known him for long, he felt a connection to the young Gascon. And already, they were willing to die for one another. Friendships like these were very hard to come by and Athos was grateful for his friends. Meanwhile, even in his weakest moment, he needed to show that he wasn't afraid. Bravery was something that defined Athos. However, his pitiful appearance couldn't lie. It was enough to twist anyone's soul with grief. They wanted to be optimistic and believe that Athos was going to live, but deep down in their hearts they knew that he could very well die.

"D'artagnan will make a fine musketeer someday." Athos turned his attention to D'artagnan, who was standing there with clenched fists by his side. He tried to understand what was happening but it was so hard to see his mentor and friend dying before his eyes.

The last time D'artagnan had been in this position was when his wounded father died in his arms. Murdered. He couldn't stand seeing someone else he cared about falling into the same fate. Just when he thought he had nothing more to live for besides vengeance, he crossed paths with the three inseparables. It never occurred to D'artagnan that he absentmindedly challenged a duel with the best swordsman in Treville's regiment right on the first meeting. It was one hell of a first impression. D'artagnan was blinded by anger and a thirst for revenge, exactly as he felt right then, and there was nothing he could do about it. Anger took over helplessness. He respected and admired Athos the same way Athos respected and admired Captain Treville.

Athos had a certain grandeur presence about him that D'artagnan held with such high esteem. The young Gascon had so much yet to learn from him. He didn't want to admit it, but he had grown rather attached to Athos over the months. He looked up to him like a teacher, a colleague, a friend, a brother. Just about everything else had been taken away from him. He was tired of losing. Just when he felt he gained a new family member, it would be taken away from him - again.

It wasn't fair and he felt so much resentment and rage. Athos was not supposed to die. At the sight of Athos' suffering, D'artagnan wanted to breakdown and sob. But all he could do was stand there with a horrified scowl on his face.

"Don't look at me like that. We've been shot at many times before." Athos said lightly, trying to give the notion that this sort of stuff happened all the time. Athos was never one for long eloquent speeches and flowery conversations, but in the few words when he did speak, he got his message across loud and clear. This was just his character.

"I'm not worried." D'artagnan replied dryly. He was trying so hard to keep his composure.

"Remind me that...when this is over...we'll open that bottle of Spanish wine I've stashed for a special occasion." Athos' voice came in weak gasps, barely coherent.

"Reserve your strength. We'll talk about that bottle of wine later." Porthos advised. He used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off Athos' feverish brow.

Through the corner of his eye, Athos saw Aramis roll out his surgical tool kit that consisted of an array of clamps, forceps, scalpels, scissors, tweezers, sutures, and needles. Just looking at it would be enough to scare anyone into hysterics. But with Athos, he wasn't the least bit anxious at all. He had a huge confidence in Aramis' skill with "battlefield medicine", as they sometimes called it. Aramis was polished and very handy with a surgical needle and thread - so polished in technique that the others often joked about it being a shame Aramis hadn't become a seamstress instead of a musketeer. There wasn't anything Aramis couldn't fix, or so his friends believed.

Aramis was troubled. For the first time in applying his skill, he was nervous. He'd sewn up all sorts of injuries - from sword wounds to knife stabs, split lips to various gashes deep enough to require stitching. He treated everything from dislocated shoulders to bruised ribs. His experience with gunshot wounds was quite limited. He'd only come across it one other time and that was just a minor graze. And being that the patient at hand was Athos did not help. Many things worried him. Most of the other wounds he'd treated were not life-threatening. This was a serious wound - one that meant life or death. Athos' life was in Aramis' hands.

"Aramis, I trust you. And in the event that I don't make it, I would've known that you've done your best." Athos said, reading Aramis' mind and relieving him some of the stress. He held nothing against Aramis and encouraged the others to do the same.

Aramis met Athos' gaze and gave a short nod. "Porthos, D'artagnan, I will need you to hold him down. This is going to hurt." He instructed. D'artagnan held down Athos' legs, while Porthos had the shoulders. Aramis prepped the wound for surgery with great speed and care.

At the sight of blood and open flesh, D'artagnan felt compelled to turn away. It was too grotesque and he needed to focus on something else to keep from feeling squeamish. His head was already spinning with nausea and he didn't want to be sick. Porthos seemed to have the ability to stomach the episode unfolding before him. He watched with undivided attention. Aramis took the clamp and heaved a deep breath before digging into the wound to retrieve the ball.

The clamp delved into Athos' gut causing an unimaginable amount of pain. As brave and strong as Athos was, he could not hold in the screams. His bloodcurdling cry echoed in the farmhouse. Athos' breathing became more and more uneasy and jagged. Reflexes caused him to writhe and want to curl up but Porthos and D'artagnan were doing a good job of keeping Athos lying straight and still so Aramis could do his task. Each painful scream tore into their souls. They've never heard Athos scream with such excruciating pain and to bear witness to it was just unreal.

Porthos and Athos eyes met. And something in Athos' disheartened blue eyes told him that he was losing the battle and ready to let go. Porthos took Athos' hand and held it tight, never loosening his grip. "Fight, brother." Porthos advised. "Aramis is nearly done."

The pain was so terrible that Athos was only able to hold onto consciousness for a few seconds longer. A tear squeezed out the corner of Athos' eye, slid down his temple and disappeared into the sweat. In all the years Porthos had known Athos, this was the first time he'd seen Athos shed a tear. No one had ever seen Athos cry. He was believed to be one of those people who were not capable of crying. Porthos understood it must've taken something big to break Athos, and this certainly fit the bill. Athos groaned and his eyes drooped to a close as he passed out.

"Athos?" Porthos called with concern when Athos' grip on Porthos' hand went slack.

"He's out. It's better this way - less suffering." Aramis said softly as he concentrated on locating the ball. He was a meticulous "surgeon" and always did things with a sense of accuracy and precision. Aramis was well-practiced and had many successes under his belt. He ignored the perspiration that had accumulated on his forehead and neck. The droplets occasionally sliding down his check did not faze him.

"I would've preferred this to be a through-and-through flesh wound." Aramis mentioned. "A simple in-and-out flesh wound would've only damaged some nerves and muscle tissues. This is way more complicated." Talking to himself was a habit Aramis had developed while performing his procedures. It helped him relax and stay focused. He needed to remain calm even though deep inside, he was losing his mind.

"There we are!" Aramis said after a few seconds of poking and prodding. Porthos and D'artagnan stood there with eyes glued to the pair of bloodied tweezers that Aramis held up revealing a small metal ball smeared with fresh blood. Pieces of blood-soaked cloth that Aramis used as a sponge littered the floor.

Athos, who was paler than death itself, remained still and unconscious. There was a short rise and fall of his chest, which was the only indication that he was indeed alive. Aramis wiped his hands on a fresh piece of cloth and proceeded to thread up to close the wound. As he threaded the suture, his hands suddenly shook so violently that he almost dropped the needle.

"Aramis, take a breath." Porthos said, taking notice of his friend's anxiety.

Aramis listened to the advice and took a moment to steady his nerves before beginning the stitches. He wiped the sweat off his face with a sleeve.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." Aramis said, feeling slightly ashamed of himself.

"I understand the pressure. This one's different." Porthos said with empathy.

Aramis cracked his neck from side to side and then proceeded to take up the needle again. His hands still trembled slightly, but he tried with all his might to control it as he finished the last stitch. The procedure took a relatively short amount of time because of the fact that Aramis was so used to sewing up wounds. When he completed the handy-work, he applied a new bandage atop the stitches.

"Will he be alright?" D'artagnan asked.

"Only time will tell. It's up to Athos now." Aramis answered as he threw his jerkin across Athos' shoulders for a blanket. He made sure Athos was as comfortable as possible before excusing himself to wash his tools in the stream behind the farmhouse.

Unlike Porthos, D'artagnan was so caught up with the stillness of Athos' facial features that he didn't notice Aramis' withdrawn behavior. Young D'artagnan found it hard to tear his gaze away from Athos' face. For the first time, he realized how young and handsome Athos was, even in this sickly appearance. Maybe it was because he never really looked at Athos in such a way before - or never really dared to. Athos had a chiseled angular jawline under a well-groomed beard. His upper lip almost disappeared into the trim mustache. His rounded thick-lashed eyes gave way to a straight nose and prominent cheekbone. Thick locks of black hair fell across a broad forehead. There was something very regal about Athos' appearance. At times, D'artagnan could swear Athos' could pass for a nobleman, but right then all he could do was stare. Perhaps if he stared harder, Athos would wake sooner.

Aramis needed fresh air. Operating on his best friend took a lot out of him and he needed a moment to collect himself. It was just too much. His legs felt wobbly as he made his way down the small slope to the stream behind the farmhouse. He had the dirtied tools clenched in his hands. When he reached the bank of the stream, he was aiming to crouch and cleanse the tools, but his weakened knees gave way and ended up sitting on the grass instead. A smear of blood caught his eye on the palm of his hand and he quickly dunked it into the stream to wash it off. Then as he dipped each of the tools into the water, he watched the water turn brownish before being taken away by the flow of the current. It was Athos' blood. All of it was Athos' blood. There was so much of it. Suddenly, feeling a sense of panic wash over him, he frantically scrubbed until every last stain of blood was off. Only then, did his mind relax a little. He cupped some water with his hand and splashed it on his face and the back of his neck. The coolness of the water was refreshing and revived him. He cupped another handful of water and drank it. He realized his hands were trembling again.

In anger, Aramis balled his fists and willed the shakes to go away. The tremors, however, did not exactly go away. Still with clenched fists, he sat there with knees drawn in and head buried in his arms and just sobbed uncontrollably. His heart was so full of grief, sadness, fear, anger, resentment, pain, and guilt that he just couldn't hold it in any longer. Porthos and D'artagnan were not there to see him unravel. He was completely alone. No one could judge him. He was in the comfort of nature. Aramis allowed the tears to flow freely. There was no stopping it and he didn't care. He cried for a while longer and when he felt it go out of his system, he wiped the remaining tears away with the palms of his hands.

"Needed a break, huh?" A soft voice belonging to Porthos unexpectedly came from behind. Aramis cleared his throat and quit crying.

"Porthos, what are you doing here?" Aramis tried to sound normal.

"Thought we could use some more water." Porthos said as he plopped down next to where Aramis was seated. He had four empty water skins in tow. "D'artagnan is sitting with Athos. The poor boy refuses to leave his side." Porthos eyed Aramis and noticed the tell-tale signs of a bawl. "But that's not the real reason I volunteered to re-fill the skins. I wanted to see how you were."

"I'm fine." Aramis said quickly.

"Are you?" Porthos retorted. "I don't think you are. I don't think anyone of us could be."

"Athos can still die." Aramis muttered.

"But he won't. Athos is as strong as an ox. He will pull through." Porthos said. "You've done all you could."

"The massacre at Savoy." Aramis said after a brief pause. "Twenty of my friends were slaughtered that day. I watched them die. The sight of blood, the mangled bodies, and the smell of burnt flesh...It plays over and over in my head every day. I still question why I lived."

"Aramis, it was a horrible thing you had to go through but you are not to blame." Porthos reasoned. "You survived."

"I can't lose another friend. I can't lose Athos." Aramis said with a shaky voice.

Porthos realized how deeply this affected Aramis. Before D'artagnan came into the picture, the three of them were like brothers. They swore loyalty to each other. There was an unbreakable bond that they shared and when one suffered, all suffered. They were inseparable. If Athos didn't make it, Porthos was sure Aramis was never going to recover from the blow. He was just too vulnerable at this point, added to the horrible events of the massacre. Aramis wore scars that no one else could see.

Aramis began organizing his surgical tools back into the slots in the kit, in hopes of distracting himself enough to keep from bawling again. The more he remembered Savoy, the more the darkness ate him. And he couldn't bear to think of Athos being dead too.

"It's because of you that he's still hanging on. If it wasn't for you, he would've died hours ago. You gave him a fighting chance." Porthos said. He filled the water skins at the stream. "Don't take the weight of the world upon your shoulders, Aramis. We're brothers. We share the grief. We look out for each other."

"I'm just worried." Aramis admitted.

"Me too." Porthos mumbled. "Athos is like the glue that binds us. I can't imagine a day going by without him. He has to be alright."

They spent the next few minutes in lost in their thoughts and collected their emotions before heading back to the farmhouse. Just as they entered through the door, they found D'artagnan sitting on one of the chairs pulled close to the table where Athos lay. The young man was still starring obsessively at Athos without so much as batting an eye. It didn't seem like he moved an inch since Porthos left early. Aramis nodded to Porthos. All this time, the thought hadn't really occurred to them how affected their youngest friend might be. Since D'artagnan was not a musketeer, he had not been exposed to the gory reality that came with being a soldier. Witnessing someone mortally wounded or die in battle wasn't something that one got over quickly. Porthos and Aramis wanted to shield D'artagnan as much as they could from such negative moments, but it was hard when he wanted so much to be "one of them." D'artagnan had guts and proved to be brave just as the others, but nothing could've prepared him for this. Porthos placed a hand on D'artagnan's shoulder and convinced him to go gather some wood for a fire.

After inspecting the old hearth in the farmhouse, it appeared to be still capable of its function. The sky was losing daylight and soon the road would be too dark to travel. It was more feasible to set camp and head out at first light. Besides, it was impossible to move Athos in such a state. Aramis checked on Athos while Porthos retrieved the saddle bags from their horses. Soon enough, they had the fire going as the night drew in. The soft glow coming from a few fat stubs of candles lit the old farmhouse. Their meal of dried vegetable soup and dried beef were eaten in silence. The mood was solemn mixed with exhaustion and everyone drowned themselves in their own turmoil.

Out of lack of something to do, D'artagnan ran a wet cloth over Athos' fiery brow every so often. He then busied himself with cleaning off the dried bloodstains on Athos' hand. Porthos found an old stool and took a seat by the hearth, poking the flames every now and then with a stick. Aramis sat on the crumbled steps behind the farmhouse, looking up at the stars. In his hand, he held a rosary. He made a sign of the cross and recited the Apostle's Creed. Aramis' original plan was to become a priest when the call of the musketeer came his way. He labeled himself as only a "temporary musketeer", though his ironic weakness for women made it quite difficult to completely fall into the vocation of priesthood. Aramis felt so weak and helpless. Resorting to prayer was the one thing he could count on for strength and peace. He recited the entire rosary, followed by a prayer for Athos.

Porthos, Aramis, and D'artagnan each took turns holding vigil by Athos' side throughout the night. But their mental and physical exhaustion kicked in and they all ended up falling asleep by the time dawn broke. Somewhere in the far distance, a lark began trilling. D'artagnan was the first to wake, but not at the sound of the lark. The first thing that came to mind was that the last twenty-four hours had been nothing more than a dream, but he was wrong when he felt the stiffness in his lower back from the awkward way he slept. He rubbed the sleep out of eyes and inhaled the slightly charred smell of a spent fire and the staleness of the farmhouse. He heard a soft moan and soon realized it was coming from Athos. D'artagnan stood up so fast that the chair he'd been sitting in crashed over backwards, waking Porthos and Aramis.

Much to D'artagnan's surprise, Athos was conscious. "Athos! He's awake! He's awake!" The young Gascon exclaimed to the others, who also rushed over.

Athos saw a circle of his friends' faces etched with both concern and joy staring back at him. He had inhaled deeply and the first thing he noticed was the awful pain in his side. He felt restricted and each pull of a muscle created an incredible amount of pain. He wanted to speak but the rawness in his throat prohibited him to make any sort of human sounds. The only thing that passed his lips was a grunt. He swallowed and decided to try again.

"Water." Athos whispered. This prompted the Aramis to quickly reach for a water skin. He slid an arm behind Athos' neck and lifted him up gently before feeding him the water. The moment the cool water touched Athos' lips, he gulped it down greedily.

"Easy. Take it easy." Aramis advised. Athos couldn't slow down even if he wanted to. It was a matter of reflexes and he just couldn't control it. The satisfying freshness of the water rejuvenated him and quenched his thirst. He didn't stop until he emptied out the water skin.

"You had us worried for a minute there." Porthos said to Athos. "You were out cold all night. For a moment, it looked like you weren't going to make it."

"Glad to have you back." D'artagnan chimed in.

"And I swear if you ever scare us like that again, I'm going to personally kill you." Porthos joked.

Athos felt groggy and disoriented, like as if he just came out of a coma. He heard his friends talking to him and he had the responses in his mind, but somehow it couldn't roll off his tongue. The only thing he could do was lie there and listen. His face was still quite sunken and pale, but after the draught of water, he looked slightly more lively.

"Looks like you'll definitely have to sit out on the next mission." Aramis warned. "You still have a ways to recover. It's some of my finest workmanship. Try not to ruin it, alright?"

"Aramis patched you up so well that your scar won't be worse than this." Porthos pointed to the scar above his eye.

"I'd ask you how you are, but I think we all know the answer to that question." D'artagnan said with a laugh.

"It's a wonder Treville hasn't sent a search party for us yet. We were expected in Paris since yesterday. Knowing him, he probably thought we stopped off at a tavern and gambled a few hands." Porthos rambled. He was just so happy that Athos was better.

"Thank you, my friends, for saving my life. I am forever in your debt." Athos' voice was hoarse and brittle. But the gratitude in his tone struck an emotional chord with all three of his friends.

"Nonsense, you would've done the same for any one of us." D'artagnan said. "All for one and one for all, remember?"

"Aramis worked his magic and here you are." Porthos said. "You should've seen the size of the metal ball."

"I wish there was something we could give you for the pain. But we have no medicines available." Aramis said when he saw Athos holding back a grimace.

"It's alright. I'll manage." Athos breathed.

"We really wouldn't know what we would've done if you had died." Aramis said.

"Musketeers don't die easily." Athos replied, sounding ever so weak. These proud words were said in such a valiant fashion by the wounded musketeer that it put pride in the hearts of the other men. They beamed with all-knowing grins.

After a small breakfast consisting of bread and cheese, they prepared for departure back to Paris. They somehow miraculously managed to get Athos mounted on his horse. Although Athos insisted that he was able to ride, Aramis took control of the reins and led his horse. Athos was in no condition to be riding but they also knew that they couldn't stay at the farmhouse. It was the only way they could get a move on. The journey back into Paris took roughly four hours and as each of these hours passed, Athos seemed to slump forward a bit further. He was fighting the pain and fatigue, and tried very hard not to fall off his horse.

When they road into the garrison, they were met by other musketeers who had seen them approaching. The fellow musketeers had reason to be concerned because they knew that Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'artagnan were supposed to have been back the day before and they feared trouble happened upon them. As the four friends drew nearer, it was very noticeable by the way they rode that one of them had been injured. Captain Treville was notified of their late arrival and came out of his commanding office immediately. From the balcony, he saw the four men on their horses coming to a stop right below his post. A group of people had formed around them, wanting to know what happened and offering to help. His eyes automatically drew to Athos, who was in poor shape. By the time he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, they had gotten off their horses. Athos was supported by D'artagnan on one side, and Aramis on the other. Athos was slightly embarrassed having to rely on the aide of his friends to walk, but he didn't have the strength to stand on his own.

"What's happened?" Captain Treville demanded. His eyes quickly travelled from Porthos to Aramis to D'artagnan, then to Athos.

"We were attacked. There were at least fifty of them. We fought them off as best we could. Athos got hit." Aramis said in one big hurried huff.

Treville's attention suddenly turned Athos, who was sagging in between Aramis and D'artagnan. He noticed Athos' doublet was unbuttoned and reached over to see what it hid. To his horror, he uncovered a huge dried bloodstained on his tunic. Seeing the blood caught Treville off his guard for a second and a full look of surprise fell across his face. He quickly ordered the three to take Athos to his own quarters and have him take the bed there. They were to report to Treville's office immediately after this was done.

Treville was said to be the third most powerful man in France, after the King and Cardinal Richelieu. He had many influences and was on good terms with the King. Therefore everyone respected him and considered him with high esteem. It was not uncommon for Treville to treat his musketeers like as if they were his own children. Not only was he their commanding officer, but he looked after them and did all in his power to protect them. He was also a father-figure to these men. He took it upon himself to be responsible for all his musketeers.

He favored Athos, though he would never admit it to anyone. Athos reminded him so much of a younger self. Athos was so full of enthusiasm and showed an eagerness to learn and follow. He took the jobs that nobody wanted. He was brave and willing to make sacrifices. He was something like the son Captain Treville always wanted but never had. He was secretly beaming proudly with joy when Athos became the top swordsman in the regiment. And to see that his protégé had been wounded so badly in battle, he felt much guilt and sorrow.

Porthos, Aramis, and D'artagnan reported to Treville's office just like he ordered. They stood there and told Treville exactly what happened. They spared no details. Treville sat at his chair and listened, sometimes stroking his beard, sometimes clasping the fingers of his hands together. He never interrupted - not even once. He allowed the men to speak freely. And when they've said all they had to say, he dismissed them to get cleaned up and go to the mess hall, where a hot meal would be waiting for them. Meanwhile, he would go check on Athos. Porthos, Aramis, and D'artagnan obeyed.

Upon entering his modest place of residence at the garrison, Treville saw Athos reclined in his bed fast asleep. His boots were kicked off and lying aimlessly at the foot of the bed. His doublet and tunic, which needed to be replaced, were removed and draped over a chair by the window. Poor Athos lay bare-chested with a tangle of blanket covering up to mid torso. It didn't look like he gave any resistance to sleep. In fact, the second Athos sank into the soft mattress and his head against an airy pillow, he was out and had no intentions of fighting the exhaustion. He only gave out a pleasant sigh before falling asleep. Treville studied Athos' pallid face and judging by the anemic appearance, it seemed like he gave one hell of a fight to stay alive. If Treville had known Athos was in such grave danger, he would've dropped everything in an instant and set out for him even if it was on his own.

Out of curiosity, Treville lifted the blanket slightly and caught sight of the wound. It was still covered with a makeshift bandage and a small spot of blood had soaked through. Treville frowned and smoothed out the blanket. He noticed how ashy Athos' complexion had become and how the dark circles under the eyes were starting to form. He pulled a chair and sat by Athos' bedside.

Treville had sent for a doctor, the best doctor he could find, for Athos. He knew Aramis had done all he could for Athos in the emergency but he needed Athos to be alright and right now, he looked frighteningly terrible. Athos had nearly become a casualty and it was too close for comfort. Treville was not going to let Athos out of his sight, at least not until the musketeer was deemed healthy again. He would look after Athos now and made sure he recovered properly.

"Sleep and be well, my son." Treville muttered as he touched the crown of Athos' head affectionately.

Treville always worried about his musketeers, especially when they had to be placed in danger. Each time he let them go, he hoped and prayed that each would return safely. He was glad that there were people like Porthos, Aramis, and D'artagnan. They suffered alongside one of their own and refused to leave him to die. They brought Athos home alive, and for this Treville was grateful.

The boys considered each other family. And because of this, they had each other's back no matter what. All for one and one for all - Athos' life was saved because of that mentality. In this case, they've done it all for Athos.

**The End**


End file.
